Above: My 1970 letter to "Santa Clouse" (was spelling it the way my father said it) and me dressed as Santa for my niece when I was 11 years old...
You tell me, is this a tale about dreams, fate, or serendipity?
I thought I’d get you in the holiday mood with a funny little story from my childhood. I was raised in a Methodist family, so the concept of Santa was everywhere in our holiday season. Of course, like other children from the 60s/70s, I grew up on Bing Crosby Christmas specials, “Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer,” and “Santa Claus is Coming to Town.” He was the American Idol back then!
One particular Christmas when I was 8, I told my mother I was going to marry Santa. Well, actually, I bragged. I thought for sure I’d make a good wife and partner for the man who gave toys to children all over the world. I loved cold weather, that was big plus. I was certain I could bake enough cookies for all the elves. And, I loved sleighs and reindeer (must be in my Laplander blood).
My mother just laughed at my “nonsense.”
I proceeded with this bold statement,“I’m going to be Mrs. Claus. Just wait and see!”
Fastforward 13 years on my wedding day March 2, 1984. As we’re being announced, I heard “I present, Mr. and Mrs. Clauss.”
Yes, I did marry a Clauss. I think the lesson is specificity. I said I was going to be "Mrs. Claus," but I didn't mention I wanted the jelly-bellied guy who lived in the cold climate. Instead, I found an athletically built man who adored the desert. There was no making of toys for children, but he did have a mean electronic workbench where he designed his own amplifiers and speakers. No sleigh, but he did have a red Camaro. But, I did get the bragging rights of being “Mrs. S. Clauss.” Something that I get ribbing about every December when I sign receipts in the stores.
When our son was a little boy, he'd be kind of down at Christmastime because kids at school would bug him about his name (thank heavens I didn’t name him “Sandy” like I was kidding I’d do). I told him to tell the kids, “That’s my grandpa, you better not be mean.” It worked every time. Well, he left the cookies for Santa on Christmas and a tired Mrs. Clauss was assembling his Lego castle to put under the tree. Exhausted, I put the cookies back into the bin and drank down the milk and left a thank you note. Santa is a polite fellow. I signed it “Santa Clauss” by force of habit. Yikes! I woke up the next morning realizing it and raced out to the living room. My son was waving the note around and laughing. “Look mom! He signed it Santa Clauss. He was using my name as a joke.”
What a relief!
Yeah, it’s not easy being Mrs. Clauss, but I do hope to live up to the name by embracing the holiday season and being the best cookie baker and gift-giver in the desert.